A Daring Proposition (14 page)

“I can’t quite remember—it’s either shrimping or crabbing.” Her sleepy eyes smiled at him disarmingly. “The Bartholomews—they’re a quarter of a mile down the road, Brian. I met them on the beach—they do this all the time. They have a boat, but the tide has to be just right, and you get nets and buckets and just catch them as they flow against the current.” She yawned again. “I borrowed your sweatshirt, Brian. I should have asked you, but my sweater’s white and they said we might get dirty.”

“And can their boat handle a fourth, Red?”

“It’s huge.” Her eyes widened, suddenly awake. “You actually want to go?”

“Would you rather I didn’t? If these are special friends you’ve made…”

She started laughing. “It’s not like that. It’s just that these are hardly sophisticated people, Brian.”

***

The Bartholomews were in their early sixties, a gray-haired couple, both of whom were plump and, like many of the condo dwellers in Florida, retired. Leigh had never seen Leonard in anything but a patched pair of shorts and a flowered shirt; and Betty-Anne was never without her straw sun hat. They took to Brian instantly, and to Leigh’s surprise he took to them. Not even with his own family had she heard him laugh so much, and it was eight in the morning before they came back to their sumptuous apartment, damp and dripping, sand-encrusted, tousled and tired. They continued to laugh as they gingerly shed their sneakers in the doorway.

“I
still
don’t understand how you managed to tip over a full bucket of crabs in the middle of the boat!”

“An absolutely huge boat and your legs had to be sticking right out, taking up all the space,” she retorted, giggling.

“If it hadn’t been for my legs, you would have ended up in the water as well. Whoever would have thought you’d turn out to be such a sissy? Screaming bloody murder over those ‘squirmy little bodies.’”

“I was not screaming.” She shook her head in an expressive shudder. “If I’d known what they looked like alive, I admit I wouldn’t have gone. I’ll never look at another crab again for as long as I live!”

“Oh, yes, you will. Have you forgotten? First there’ll be crab in the shell, then crabmeat salad. Then a round of leftovers. Then crab cocktail, boiled crab, stewed—”

“Do you think you could fancy some simple scrambled eggs for a moment?” she broke in. “Brian, do you really—truly—like crab?”

“Normally I can take it or leave it.” He opened cupboards searching for the coffeepot while Leigh got out the frying pan. “At the moment, it looks as if I’ll have to take it. I can’t find anything in this kitchen.”

“Do you expect to find the coffee in the silverware drawer? Listen, Brian, I didn’t want to hurt the Bartholomews’ feelings, but don’t you think we could just sort of…slip them back into the ocean?”

There were tears in his eyes before he finished laughing. “We sat there for three solid hours, cramped and damp and salty, holding those nets in the water against the tide and you want to sneak them back into the ocean?”

“Did I hear you say you like your scrambled eggs like leather?” Leigh asked sweetly.

“If I catch you carrying those heavy buckets all the way down to the beach edge, Red, there’s going to be one part of your anatomy that will wish
it
were leather.”

Silently, Leigh put the eggs on platters and brought them to the table. She returned to the kitchen for the coffeepot and juggled that with a hot pad and two cups to cart them in at the same time.

“You hear me, Leigh?”

The scrambled eggs were fascinating, and Leigh was starving. She made them with a dollop of cream cheese and a dash of chives, and it was her favorite breakfast. The bacon was crisp and the toast was blanketed with guava jelly.

“Oh, all right,” Brian said impatiently.

“Thank you, Brian. Perhaps after dark, if you think they’ll survive the day? The Bartholomews have a window facing the beach just like ours—I wouldn’t want them to think we weren’t grateful.” She caught her breath at his expression. “I’m sorry,” she said slowly, suddenly aware of what an absurd tantrum she’d been having, silent treatment and all—exactly the kind of thing she disliked. “It’s just that I honestly don’t think I could eat them, Brian, after seeing them alive. And as for killing them—”

“What are your plans for the day?” he asked abruptly.

“Laundry, beach, undoubtedly a long nap, dinner in time to stroll the beach for a sunset. But first, of course, a shower. The aroma of seaweed,” she explained ruefully.

“You really haven’t minded being alone so much this week, have you?” he asked bluntly.

“Did you think I expected you to hold my hand?” she said in surprise. “I’m not afraid of being alone, Brian, and there are lots of people anyway. You’ve been busy.”

“Well, that’s over now, Red, or almost over. They’ve got my proposals, and they’ve got a few days to think about them. I don’t have the energy to do much today, I have to admit, but perhaps tomorrow we might rent a boat. Just cruise around, or do a bit of deep-sea fishing.”

“I’d love that,” she admitted softly. “That is—”

“As long as we throw back whatever we catch,” he finished for her dryly.

The boat was a white, silver-streaked cabin cruiser, not so large that it couldn’t be anchored in shallow waters, and not so small that there wasn’t a tiny galley space and bunk-storage combined. The breeze was warm, but powerful enough to push the clouds across the horizon at a steady pace. The sun burned bright, denying its January setting, the rays dancing on the water in long, gleaming streaks as they passed. Occasionally, an island seemed to appear out of nowhere, a spot of burnished gold in the distance with perhaps a stand of scrub or palm trees or the bright color of a bird perched on a jutting rock.

Leigh had long given up the scarf she had tied on her head; there was no arguing with the wind when the boat was going full-speed ahead. It didn’t matter. The wind combed through to her scalp like the massage of gentle fingers, and the sensual pleasure far outweighed the instinct to preserve a neat hairdo. She closed her eyes and thought back over the past two days with Brian, a lazy blend of happy moments in her mind. They knew each other so well now; she accepted his pre-coffee growls in the morning just as he accepted the fact that stormy weather made her cross. These past days had been perfect. She had been loving him to bursting: the gentle, possessive manner he had adopted toward her, the shared laughter, his teasing, the way he looked when he came out of the water, sleek and wet.

The boat slowed and Leigh glanced toward Brian at the wheel. “Fishing time,” he called down to her. For just a moment, his eyes rested on the swirling halo of her russet hair in the wind, the grace of her long, tanned limbs. “Bring up the bait box, Red.”

She nodded in agreement. He had bought live shrimp as bait; the principle was to catch a decent-sized fish from them and then use that for the next bait—marlin, sailfish, barracuda. There were fish of all kinds in these deeper waters off the coast. It all sounded fine until Leigh actually opened the container. Live shrimp bore no resemblance at all to the shrimp she’d eaten in a restaurant: orange and squirmy, with tiny beady eyes and tentacles worse than a tarantula’s. She glanced back at Brian, who was standing behind her putting together the poles and already set to laugh at her.

“That’s an inhuman way to die,” she pointed out. “Stabbed viciously on a hook and in pain for hours, unless it’s lucky enough to have some terrifying thing come up and eat it for lunch.”

“So you want me to bait your hook for you, Red?” Brian said, straight-faced.

“No way.”

She baited her hook with bologna stolen from her sandwich, glaring at Brian when he laughed and refusing to even look at his pole until his shrimp was under the water. Prepared for a long siege of waiting, she was startled when only a few minutes later she felt a strong jerk on her line that tugged her to a standing position.

“It’s
huge!
” She needed both of her hands to hold the pole. For minutes the line went slack and then suddenly the fish pulled again, jerking her off-balance with its surprising strength.

“I don’t want to disillusion you, Red, but the chances of catching a shark with two inches of bologna are absolutely nil.”

“Sour grapes, Mr. Hathaway. And you said I wouldn’t catch anything!” They had to half shout at each other over the stiff breeze. Leigh was giggling like a child at the triumph of her first catch. “Quit fighting!” she called out over the white-tipped waters. “You’ll only hurt yourself! I’ll let you go as soon as I can!”

The line jerked stiffly, bringing Leigh halfway to her feet again. She struggled for balance, trying to pin the rod between her legs for added support so she could reel it in.

“You
could
ask for help,” pointed out Brian.

“This is my fish!” she protested, breathless from her efforts. The strap of her suit slipped from her shoulder; her hands were almost trembling with the effort of holding the line. With a puzzled frown, Brian was scanning the waters for her prey. Then he sighted it. “Damn it, Red, what the hell have you got there?”

The next minutes were a confusing kaleidoscope in her mind. Brian taking care of his own line and coming up behind to help her; laughter; her playful insistence that she
would
handle it when she was increasingly disgruntled to find she couldn’t; then his hand circling her waist, bolstering her back to the cradle of his hard thighs—only to give her support, she didn’t doubt that, so she could reel the line in on her own. But then her mind registered something else. He was all but naked, and so was she. She saw her breast peeking out from where the bathing strap had slipped, felt the strength in his legs and chest, naked and hot. The scent was there: sun, salt, man. Heat and power. It had happened so fast. She would trust him with her life; it wasn’t that. It was just the old instinctive dread, and in the confusion she prayed he wouldn’t notice that her heart was racing. If he didn’t release her soon…

He didn’t seem to notice. It was natural to separate as they both surveyed their unexpected haul. The fish was reddish-orange, scaly and fat, perhaps three feet in length and almost as wide as it was long. Its gold eyes stared sightlessly, and its gills heaved as it tried desperately to escape. The fish took up most of the floor space on the slippery deck.

“Brian, he’s going to die if we don’t get him back in the water,” Leigh said worriedly.

“Is that
all
you can say?”

She loved the curve of his smile, felt relief flow through her body like warm honey. “I certainly hope he enjoyed the bologna.”

Brian laughed as he knelt down to free the hook from the fish’s mouth. “It’s the biggest snapper I’ve ever seen. Look, Red.”

Cautiously, she angled closer. The bologna had not caught the snapper. A smaller fish, brown and speckled, had gone for the sandwich meat; the hook had erupted through the skin of its mouth and caught the snapper when it unwisely went after the live bait.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“If I’d just waited a little longer,” Leigh said artlessly, “we could probably have gotten the shark that went for the snapper.”

“A fish story, if ever I’ve heard one!”

“Gee, how’s your shrimp doing, Brian? Any bites?”

It was easy to joke and laugh again, to pretend the moment of fear had never existed. No small amount of perspiration and swearing and effort—on Brian’s part—later, and the fish was back in the water. It plunged deep and Leigh held her breath; then she chuckled again. The snapper was not so hurt that it was not willing and able to be instantly on its way.

She and Brian shared a drink and snack, and then mutually agreed that any more immediate exercise was out of the question. Instead, they made their way to the front of the boat to put down their towels. Brian stretched out full-length on his back; Leigh wanted to believe she was more comfortable sitting with her knees drawn up, that his closeness was not affecting her again. She closed her eyes, listening. The water slop-slurped against the sides of the boat in a lulling rhythm, and the sounds of gulls were suddenly pervasive—a haunting, piercing series of cries as they fished for their prey. Peaceful. She could almost lose herself in the mesmerizing music of water and birds, in the warmth of the sun and the hypnotic rocking.

“Lie back, Leigh.”

Her eyes blinked open. She knew in an instant that he had been aware of her earlier reaction to him. Helplessly, she wondered if he could sense the shiver of fear that ran through her now at the tone of his voice. He had given an order, an order he intended her to obey, an order wrapped in the deep, silky texture of his seductive voice.

She lay on her side, careful to face away from him, staring out over the waters at the clouds like carelessly painted splotches on the horizon. A storm was building. The colors of the sky were blending with those of the sea at the curve of the horizon, a mixture of purples and grays. Overhead, the sun still burned brightly, the intensity so great that it sapped energy from the body.

Her tension relaxed and was instantly recharged as his palm roamed over the back of her legs, soothing suntan lotion on them in long, sure strokes. Slowly, from her calf to the back of her thigh to the fabric of her suit. A moment of hesitation, and then from the other thigh down to her calf, to the slim, strangely sensitive circle of her ankle. There wasn’t a nerve ending in her body that hadn’t tightened at his caressing touch. His sensuous touch. She knew he could feel in his hands the muscles that went helplessly taut, but he was ignoring it.

The tiny suit straps were slipped from her arms, and his hands started working on her back and shoulders. As fast as she built up tension, he was working to erase it, not allowing any knots or stiffness. He knew too much, taking her flesh in his hands as if it were putty, his fingers sneaking in beneath the fabric of her suit, warm, vibrant, insistent. Her skin sang with the heat. She desperately wanted to move away, but couldn’t. The foreboding was there, and something she didn’t want to believe. He was writing novels with his touch. Mysteries. Her heart didn’t know whether to beat fast or slow, but she knew with every instinct that he wanted her.

“Flip onto your back,” he said quietly.

“No, Brian.” It was only a whisper, barely audible.

“Turn over, Leigh.” That tone again.

Helplessly, she said nothing, and after a moment she heard a growl of annoyance. With firmness and confidence, he reached for her waist and shoulder to turn her over himself. Her body reacted rather than her mind: her fingers became claws, intent on self-preservation; her feet skidded on the deck, intent on escape. The water simply reached out to her, and she jumped with her hands protectively over her stomach, too panicked even to remember to hold her breath. Her foot touched bottom and something sharp and painful pierced the sole. The water felt unpleasantly icy to Leigh’s sun-fevered skin. Something slithery brushed her leg, and in horror she swallowed a mouthful of saltwater, gasping and choking as she finally surfaced.

“Brian!”

***

It took time for Brian to drive the boat back to its rental place, time to snatch a carry-out dinner, time to drive back home to the condominium. Brian came around to her side of the car, opened her door and scooped her up in his arms, carting her wordlessly through the apartment until they’d reached her bedroom and the massive pedestaled bed. Leigh felt like an absolute fool. Her foot had been badly cut and it smarted; her tongue refused to make a reasonable effort at conversation; and the past few hours of wretchedly silent tension between them had started a pounding headache in her temples. Making matters even worse was the fact that the discomfort seemed to be on her part. Brian’s only reaction to her escapade had been to mildly call her an idiot and point out that the baby might not have appreciated the premature baptism. She had thought—she had been
sure
—that there was fury in his eyes when he hauled her out of the water, but his later manner and tone had denied it, and that first show of emotion had been quickly masked.

Almost brusquely he deposited her on the furry scarlet bedspread. “All right, Red. I know you better than to forbid you the shower—you’ll be determined to get the saltwater out of your hair—but I don’t want you to put any weight on that foot. Understand? Coral has a way of affecting some people like poison.”

Indifferently, he surveyed her, his glance taking in Leigh, the bed, the sensuous furnishings of the scarlet bedroom. He had not been in there before, not even once. His manner was unfathomable. She wanted desperately to offer him an apology, to bring back the warm, easy laughter. His detachment over the past two hours had been exactly as it was when he first met her; exactly, at one time, all she’d wanted from him.

He was gone before she could tender the apology; at any rate, she did not know what to say. Listlessly, she got off the bed again and hobbled into the bath, stripping off the damp, salty suit and the sweatshirt she had borrowed from him. The shower stung her body in hot torrents like a punishment; her foot stung, too, where it had been cut, and she noticed an unsightly bruise on her thigh, gotten heaven knew where in that escapade.

At last the sticky salt was washed from her hair and she emerged into the foggy bathroom, flushed and clean. Wrapping herself in one of the huge bath towels, she perched on the counter to avoid standing, and dried and brushed her hair. When that was done, she reached for her short terry wrap and used the towel to wipe the fog from the mirrors—it was crazy to do an entire wall of a bathroom in mirrored tiles—and found herself staring at her reflection. The white wrap was a startling contrast to the warm honey color of her skin. Her hair curled softly at the shoulders; a burnished swathe waved sensually over one eye, and she brushed it aside in an automatic gesture. Brown eyes stared back at her, oval with the faintest hint of an upward slant, brooding, intense, sensitive. How
could
she have acted so foolishly on the boat? More important, how could she ever have let herself fall in love with Brian when she knew how she was?

Abruptly, Leigh turned away. She shivered when she opened the door and was met with the startling contrast of temperatures. The bedroom was cool and shuttered during the day, and after the neon brightness of the bathroom she had to blink once or twice to accustom herself to the dimmer light.

“Brian!”

His dark form was stretched out on the bed, thoroughly relaxed, thoroughly at home, and Leigh thoughtlessly put weight on the ball of her cut foot in an unconscious movement backward, wincing as she did so.

“I’m here to take a good look at that, Red.” He had showered, too, she noticed. His hair was like a black helmet, still damp, framing the austere features of his face. Wearing only thin navy cords, he was barefoot and bare-chested, and when he moved to get off the bed, she could see the rippling of muscles across his chest and shoulders.

“No more Mercurochrome,” she said warily, still standing in the same spot. Not for anything would she allow herself to run again, or even to think of running. But the awareness was there once more, intensified by the knowledge that she had nothing on beneath the white terry-cloth wrap, the awareness that she was alone with this sensual, magnetic husband of hers.